dalliansss reblogged
First kinktober chapter is out!
on the menu: finwexmirielxelwe & food kink
pls don't hesitate to send me prompts!
dalliansss reblogged
Anonymous asked:
Really really sorry to ask but could you recommend fics that centers on my baby findekano? You know for science 🥹
hello! sorry I just saw this now 😭 I've actually not read many silm fics at all 😩 but here's a few (and I've written a few too if you're interested!)
Common Counsel by bunn
The Solidity of Ghosts by Drag0nst0rm
By the Light of the Flames by Drag0nst0rm
Not including a lot of Fingon/Maedhros just because it's so ... everywhere. You can't miss it. (though they still got in 😂)
by @ettelene:
Bound by fealty Fingon & Hador, G, Gen, 893 words Mouthful Fingon tries a new Mannish dish. G, Gen, 300 words Asëa aranion The Grinding Ice. Findekáno makes a discovery and wants to share it. G, Gen, 647 words So many more by this author - check out the full works!
The Seven Trials of Fingon the Valiant by @melestasflight and @polutrope Findekáno returns to Tirion after ten years in Manwë’s service in Valmar. He is much changed, to the delight of his Fëanárian cousins. And the sons of Fëanáro are always determined to get what they want. T, M/M, 10,424 words
more by @melestasflight:
And He Was Loved by the King Or four versions of how and why Fingon gave Hador the Dragon-helm of Dor-lómin. M, Gen & M/M, 5,948 words Red The world is aging, and Fingon entreats for Maedhros in the Halls of Mandos. It is simpler than he believed, but somehow it makes nothing easier. G, Gen & M/M, 2,926 words
Again, many excellent Fingon fics - lots of Fingon/Maedhros if that's your taste.
A Bond That Shines and Burns by @sallysavestheday Fingon and Turgon negotiate brotherhood and pain. G, Gen & M/M, 600 words
Idea Dump #2 by @zealouswerewolfcollector Chapter 1: Fingolfin and Fingon, Discussion of the Crown and More T, Gen, 735
a bag of peas by @dalliansss Findekáno does everything in his power to prevent Indis from matching him off for marriage. G, Gen, 2,076 words
My Girlfriend, Who Lives In Doriath by @clothonono Fingon gets married. Hilarious Gil-galad origin story. T, M/M, 1,930 words
And I'll toss in one of my own (rarepairs my beloved)
To The Victor Go The Spoils Angrod/Fingon T, M/M, 2,833 words
dalliansss reblogged
For @finweanladiesweek, have some Galadriel and Finrod, loving each other despite (and because of) their shared bad habits, in Long, White Knives (G: 425 words).
dalliansss reblogged
Anonymous asked:
Angbang, "You must know, surely, it was all for you"
Mairon is trembling. He is not yet sure if it is anger, sorrow or adrenaline. All he knows are the scorching words Mbelekhoruz - Morgoth, he thinks with bitter venom - just uttered to him. All he knows is the faint look of disinterest in his spouse's eyes, so much more painful than hatred. Disinterest, the utter antonym of love, disinterest or when everything has faded, and nothing is left to salvage.
He had come to tell Mbelekhoruz that his werewolf project had been successful, the fear of elves broken and mended together in some horrifying mixture. He had been proud, he had been smirking.
"What do you mean," Mairon says, slowly, quietly. "I have changed?"
Mbelekhoruz is not even looking at him. Mairon wants to scream, to shout, to grab him by the shoulders and have him look at him. He wants for him to Look, and for him to feel, for him to come back to what he was, to what they once were-!
He wants to scream, and he wants to melt the ice he had once loved and now learned to hate.
"If you have not noticed it, it is not of mine responsibility to demonstrate it to you," Mbelekhoruz says. He does not rise his eyes from the parchment he is looking at. Mairon knows what it is - a report on this elf. The one Mbelekhoruz keeps, the one he plays stones with, the one he is fascinated by, the one he seems to be growing to- to- to love.
Once Mairon had been the one to face such love. The one to have Mbelekhoruz's interest, to have his gaze upon him, to play stones with him, to laugh- and now, now... Something terrible seizes his heart, like a claw of ice drowning numbing everything else, and Mairon wants to laugh, high-pitched, crazed, maniac.
"Not you responsibility?" Mairon whispers. "Not your...? And who did I do everything for? Who did I sacrifice my life, my friends, my peace, my mind, my everything for-!"
"I asked for nothing." Even then Mbelekhoruz does not look up. "You offered by yourself."
"Offered by!" he chokes.
"Yes." Mbelekhoruz's words are ice-cold, devoid of those tendrils of warmth Mairon had managed to slip into his voice. "You offered it willingly, Mayazonoz. You were the one to come to me, looking for freedom from Valinor. I never asked for you to join me. You were the one to beg me to free you."
"AND WHY DID I ASK FOR THAT!" Mairon screams. "Asked for nothing? For nothing?! Were you not the one to come to the forges, to lure me away, to charm me away, to sell me a picture of freedom and a promise- and now- now-!"
Mbelekhoruz finally looks up. And like the rest of him, his golden eyes betray no warmth; as if it had entirely left him. "Now?"
"Now you only have eyes for that elf-! Now you tell me that I have changed? I?!"
"Yes."
"And if I changed, if I perverted myself, if I went down this path which will end me, have I not done it for you? You must know, surely, it was all for you!"
"Perhaps," Mbelekhoruz says, and he folds his paper in two. "But along the way, you forgot it is not for me that we follow the Great Plan, and decided to indulge your own whims, greed, cruelty. You forgot that all we do has an ultimate purpose for the own sake of indulging yourself. You forget yourself, Mayazonoz, you have changed, and that you are unable to see it comforts me in my thought."
Mbelekhoruz smiles now, and it is a sad thing, but it is not bittersweet nor loving. "Surely, Lieutenant, you have known it for a long time now. Perhaps we were never truly meant to be."
Perhaps, Mairon thought in Numenor, upon watching a great statue of Melkor be unraveled in his temple, white hot tears burning through his cheeks. But perhaps they were, and in making him proud, the warmth would return to his eyes.
Perhaps when the Great Task would be finished, perhaps when everything done, when Eru finally satisfied...
Perhaps Mbelekhoruz would walk out of the void, their hands would twine, and on his lips, Mairon would read an echo of the one who had wed him in Almaren and promised for their vows to be ever lasting.
dalliansss reblogged
The Hunter and His King
Very much inspired by @ylieke and this glorious piece of art
Thank you! 💖
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Celegorm/Finrod Rated T 500 words
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The steam of the bathhouse left a damp patina over everything in the anteroom. However often it was cleaned and refreshed, there was no escaping it. Celegorm found that rolling his towel tightly helped a little.
He had already changed into his robe when Finrod came in, and for all his grace and care Celegorm could not miss how he favored his right leg.
“Thou art wounded,” Celegorm said, noticing the deep slash in Finrod’s leg as he undressed.
dalliansss reblogged
It's the first day of Autumn (in Aegnor's mind at least) and he has something very specific in mind.
dalliansss reblogged
If there had been a word needed to describe Curufinwë, one that could summon the extent of his passion, of his hot-headed temper, of his decisions-riddled head, of his fiery actions, would be stubbornness.
Oh, sweet, sweet stubbornness: which prompted the world to spin one degree faster on its axis, which led the premises of the nastiest wars, which coiled and coiled in the heads of Kings until Ideas formed; which either dragged forward or remained, well stubbornly, in place. Oh sweet, sweet stubbornness, indeed. He had known it when he was but a small thing, when he had dragged his hands in the muds and painted the white walls with colours, colours, colours.
Even then, Curufinwë had seen the white walls as a personal affront; the lack of colours as something that needed fixing. Too young to remember the Halls of Estë, where he and Nerdanel had lingered before and after his birth; for the fifth pregnancy of the Princess of the Noldor had proved difficult indeed. Too young to remember it, and yet already – and forever – did he loathe the vast whiteness of the clouds above their heads, of the walls that surrounded and made their home.
He had marked his way on them; already – and forever – unafraid to put his signature on what he thought flawed. Unafraid to shape it until it resembled something he liked more. Now, that flash of colour, he did not wish it on himself. Nay, himself was not a canva – himself was the artist, painting with all his colours. It was the world around him which needed fixing, not himself.
His own clothing was oft bereft of this colour he liked so much; dark, dark, dark, as if to swallow the whole of them into one black hole he would cherish and call his. He didn’t mind.
Again, himself was the artist. The world, and the little puppets walking within it, his to play with, his to rethink and better. Oft, he would look at his siblings; at his brothers; and think them puppets on a string.
All different sorts of strings: responsibility when it came to Maitimo, success when it came to Makalaurë, freedom (as if some golden carrot woven in front of his eyes, the simple idea of it) for Tyelkormo, forecast for Carnistir, visibility for Amras, and faith for Amrod.
Responsibility. Maitimo walking on a line thinning and thinning as the years went past, walking above an abyss, either side of him tugged in permanence from dozens and dozens of hands. ‘Come here Nelyo!’ they would cry, and he would turn his head right; and then left, and right again; again, and again, and again, with no hopes for ending. One day, Curufinwë thought, one side would tug harder than the others, and he would fall head first into it.
(Responsibility, he’ll say, when he’ll cut through Teleri barring his way to escaping duties he loathes.)
Success. Makalaurë turning and tossing in bed until the early hours of the day, unable to find sleep; for he would think of all who had put their statue on the Great Hall in Taniquetil, where the most praised artists would find themselves honoured for ages to come. ‘I will join them,’ he would laugh, and when the night come, find himself stumbling out of bed, driven by the relentless feeling of being not enough; and practice his harp until his fingers would bleed.
(Success, he’ll say, when he’ll cut through Teleri barring his way to finding inspiration in Lands left unwitnessed by his kin.)
Freedom. Tyelkormo scowling in the face of the laws and customs; ever since his legs had allowed him to go where his mind wanted. For he would yearn at their windows for the sound of the trees, and imagine himself this great idea of freedom. Freedom with a great F, that sweet notion who allowed him to run carelessly in the wind, and laugh uproariously. Thus, Freedom was what he invoked when he found himself yearning for something he couldn’t describe, and Freedom the great term which engulfed each and every of his feelings. Freedom, this great vast idea he could never truly reach yet found himself desiring. Freedom! Freedom, he’d say, when more and more rules trapped him in place, when he’d tear out the wings of butterflies to see if he could hear their cries in his head.
(Freedom, he’ll say when he’ll cut through Teleri barring his way to the great lands of the East.)
Forecast. Carnistir weeping and wailing as a toddler, back when Curufinwë had not even existed as thought; for his mind summoned pictures of the past and future alike – and in them a tapestry of events he was condemned to be alone to see. Forecast, when his actions would seem so very eerie to others, when he would find himself waving thread after thread. Forecast, when he’d miss Curufinwë’s begetting day in favor of loading carts after carts of gold.
(Forecast, he’ll say when he’ll cut through Teleri barring his way to the great bridge between his dreams and reality.)
Visibility. Amras laughing loud, and louder, and louder even – and running through the house even as many of them had already gone to sleep. For he would speak louder than all, and he would laugh louder even; and shake his hair and say them to be paler than Nelyo; the very same shade of a fox’s fur. For he would think when separated from his twin that being the seven son, part of a pair, meant that he would forever exist as something that wasn’t entirely himself. A package, perhaps; and he would both fiercely want to never have the two items separated and yet found himself thinking of what would have happened if even a year had separated him from his other him. If perhaps he would be seen as someone, and not something.
(Visibility, he’ll say when he’ll cut through Teleri barring his way to words of praise and love falling from his Atar’s lips.)
Faith. Amros praying, with a smile on his lips and sweet irony in his eyes – as if he meant nothing of it, and yet the words ringing true in the heart of many. Necklaces lapping over his chest, statues hidden under his bed, and always a sweet excuse as for their presence. Faith; and prayers, and hope, and despair; that things seemed to fall and fall more as the time passed; and his family distance himself from what could save them. In a land of Gods, forsaking divinity was a doom in itself. And when it came, when it proved true—
(Faith, he says when he cuts through Teleri barring his way to a different kind of redemption, to Lands bereft of Gods.)
And, amongst all, one word missing, one name bereft of a feature to be given—
“What are you doing?” Tyelko asks, leaning from behind him to peer at what Curufin is writing.
He jolts, presses the manuscript to his heart. In a second he has destroyed it into a ball of paper, then tossed it into the fire. He turns, crosses his arms on his chest and takes a look at Tyelko.
He’s dressed for war, in that armour ridden with pelts, red and black makeup causing his features to become even more feral. He enjoys it, Curufinwë knows, when his ennemies mistake him for something half sentient, half beast. He finds it hilarious; Curufinwë knows, and whispers in their ears secrets of the world before slicing their throats.
“Nothing,” Curufinwë says, with a tilt of his chin.
(Stubborness, he’ll say, when he cuts through Teleri barring his way to Lands allowing him to make a name for himself.)
dalliansss reblogged
Mercy
Celegorm & young!Finrod Teen & Up ~600 words
Celegorm has many lessons to teach, not all of them expected or wanted.
Warning for animal death and blood under the cut.
inspired by @polutrope
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“Draw a breath, then draw the bow,” Turcafinwë said.
Ingoldo drew his bow. It was still heavy for his strength, but it was a new gift and he was eager to make the attempt. His left arm shuddered with the effort, making it hard to keep his aim.
“Steady,” Turko admonished. “If you cannot hold it steady, let it slack and try again.”
Unwilling to be patient, Ingo loosed it - more for his hold failing - but it flew wide of the target and into the brush. It was disappointing but no great surprise to miss. What he had not expected was the anguished squeal that followed.
dalliansss reblogged
When the silence lingers for too long, Finrod goes after Curufin.
dalliansss reblogged
Untouched on SWG
Rated: T Characters: Aerin, Brodda Wordcount: 100 Warning: implied but not explicit non-con
Aerin is taken to wife by Brodda.
This was partly inspired by my previous post exploring the possibility that Aerin was quite young when married by force.
Written for @silmarillionwritersguild Middle-earth is Multitudes challenge
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Fear and grief in equal measure flooded her chest to near bursting. She would not let it show. Her father and brothers had not returned over the mountains; instead, these strangers had come, taking their homes, and making slaves of those who remained.
Standing tall under the invader’s gaze, she refused to feel dirty. His words were unknown, but his leer was easy enough to read: she was young still, not yet of age to marry by her own people’s measure.
Untouched.
There was no courtship, no ceremony, no recourse. Her one solace: she would never bear him a child.
Now on AO3 also - modified version
dalliansss reblogged
Instead of Mandos, Maedhros wakes in his fourty-years old body, in the Years of the Trees.
There is the creation of the Silmarils to avoid, the nuisance of Melkor speaking lies amongst the Noldor, trying to fake being the Prince Heir Maitimo when his patience has suffered an age of war, the nightmares and PTSD plaguing him, and - in all honesty - returning to living with two hands when one had spent an entire age being robbed of one.
If only he could just have a break.
dalliansss reblogged
More Finrod Appreciation: Other People’s Fics
Rating: T Category: M/M Relationships: Finrod/Edrahil Characters: Finrod, Edrahil, Gildor Words: 3,959
“You have brought a stranger unasked-for into the hidden kingdom of Nargothrond, without word or leave,” Finrod says, trying to sound stern. It’s difficult. The crime is a capital one, but the criminal is very small, and tugging on his earring.
This was such a sweet story!
Rating: T Category: M/M Relationships: Finrod/Caranthir Characters: Finrod, Caranthir, ornery goats eating roof shingles Words: 7,522
Of Finrod and Caranthir; returned from the Halls of Mandos, grapple with the remnants of an old life they cannot go back to, relationships lost, and the daily terror of mountain goats - all the way to the breaking of the Old World and the coming of the New, and find hope.
Fantastic world building!
Rating: G Category: M/M Relationships: Finrod/Caranthir Characters: Finrod, Caranthir Words: 1,222
Finrod and Caranthir share an unexpectedly tender moment before the birth of their son.
Many feels, very tender indeed but also sad.
The Importance of Peer Review (Series) by @sallysavestheday
Rating: G Relationships: Finrod/Eol, Aegnor/Andreth Best Tag: Anthropologists gone wild Words: 2,241 Works: 5
Finrod Felagund’s enthusiasm for research has disastrous consequences.
Hilarity but also doesn’t pull punches.
Rating: G Relationships: Finrod & Aegnor, Aegnor/Andreth, Finrod/Beor Characters: Finrod, Aegnor Words: 6,029
“I convinced myself the situations were different. I built labyrinths within my reason to justify the pretense, and in their twisting ways I wandered blind till faced with her grief—the tribute paid in pain, as thou hast named it. Till then I could contend that I suffered so thou might be spared; I grieved so that thou might hold love in memory untarnished. That I learned at the feet of Doom to thus keep its step from thine own neck, and so should goodness come of it. Eru forgive me, I was wrong.”
——
After his conversation with Andreth forces him to face his own rationalizations and hypocrisies, Finrod realizes he needs to come clean to Aegnor and confesses to him both the consequences of his former advice, as well as his own secret grief that motivated it.
It hurt so much, I would read it another 50 times.
dalliansss reblogged
Plunging deeper into the rare pair abyss, a lil gift for @dalliansss because her characterization of maedhros and finrod is top notch and you should go for it ✨🔥
In which Irmo offers Maedhros gold.
dalliansss reblogged
Ch2 of our Maeglin/Finrod collab is up @dalliansss 💜✨
Maeglin is welcomed into Nargothrond. Finrod, once more, sees an opportunity for a temporary escape.
dalliansss reblogged
For @dalliansss who introduced me to the sweet delight of Finrod
Maeglin has been very good lately, Finrod decides to thank him accordingly.
dalliansss reblogged
« Thou change very often, » Melkor pointed out. “Thy flesh reflects on thine moods. I think I pierced it apart by now; blue means reflection, does it not? Why are thee telling us of what should stay hidden? Stay protected?”
“Because I am me, of course.”
“Explain.”
“I am me, and I am as I have been made,” Irmo answered; and laughed. “I can not help the nature of I, nor try to act against it. What use would it be?” He raised his eyes from the board, and immediately brightened. “Look! There is a Teleri with a purple satchel! It is so pretty!”
- ONTOPMIA (here)